


Knowing Without Knowing

by Brightbear



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: 1920s, M/M, Oblivious, Poirot at sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/pseuds/Brightbear
Summary: Hastings is at sea, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Knowing Without Knowing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> I hope you like this and my apologies that it doesn't have more plot. Hastings just refused to cooperate! I also don't speak a word of French.

The TSS Themistocles was a merchant steamer, powering steadily across the oceans. A lone yellow funnel puffed white steam into the sky until it was lost amongst the clouds. Below the gleaming white deck, a sleek green hull carved through waves. The Union Jack proudly flew from one mast to let all who cared know that this was a British ship. Beside it flew the white star shining on a red and blue striped background, a symbol of the White Star Aberdeen Line Service. 

The Themistocles journeyed regularly from London to South Africa and Australia, and back again. The journey so far was as expected for the crew. Captain Arthur Hastings had done similar trips before and he enjoyed stretching his long legs in a stroll around the deck. Hastings was a tall handsome Englishman, dressed in a tan suit with a knitted tie and a straw hat. He took a deep breath of salty air and knocked on the door of one of the first class cabins. He waited cheerfully and nodded genially at another passenger. Moments passed and there was still no response so he knocked again.

“Mr Hastings?” called a voice.  
Hastings turned to see a member of the ship’s crew approaching.  
“Excuse me, sir, are you Mr Hastings?”  
“That’s me, alright.”  
“Mr Poirot left a message for you, sir. He said he was going to sleep for the rest of the day but that he would join you for dinner.”  
“Oh, well, I’ll be back then. Thank you.”  
“Very good, sir,” said the sailor, nodding.  
Hastings knew further details without having to ask. Hastings had sailed the rough waters of the Cape of Good Hope and had never once been sea-sick (his first experience with sea-sickness wouldn't strike until almost a decade had passed). Hasting’s dearest friend, Poirot, had ventured complaints even when sailing the mild Mediterranean. They had just sailed past the coast of Spain which was choppy enough to send Poirot into hiding in his cabin. Poirot had brought a small pharmacy of medications which cured his sea sickness - mostly by drugging him into unconsciousness. If Poirot had promised to join Hastings for dinner, it was possible his self-imposed exile was about to end.  
Whistling with renewed cheer, Hastings returned to the open deck. The crew had organised games to entertain their passengers for the long trip. There was a great deal of squealing from the children gathered on the starboard side, where glistening toffee apples hung from strings. The children took turns to try and sink their teeth into the slippery toffee, without the benefit of their hands.

To the port deck, a more adult group of passengers was starting to gather near the deck quoits. Instead of using the traditional wooden pegs, white targets had been painted directly onto the deck itself. Hastings found himself drawn towards the knot of passengers waiting with the rings of knotted rope.

Two older men were stood in the middle of the targets, deep in discussion over some aspect of the rules. Hastings recognised the man dressed in a fine white three-piece suit as Major Frank Chesterton. The other man wore a bowler hat and a pin-stripped suit of a decidedly cheaper cut.

To the side of the discussion, two young women held their own quoits rings and huddled close together. One Hastings recognised as Miss Ella Chesterton, the daughter of Frank. Ella was a bustle of constant nervous movement, clutching at her companion’s arm and constantly turning her head to look this way and that. Her unfamiliar companion was dressed in widow’s blacks and standing with her hands clasped together in front of her as if physically restraining herself from bodily diving in to sort out the men disagreeing. 

“Good morning,” said Hastings, approaching the two younger women. “Are we to have a game?”  
Ella jumped again at the sound of his voice but visibly sagged in relief as she recognised Hastings.  
“Oh yes, eventually,” agreed Ella. “But you must meet my closest friend, Mrs Dorothy Bessler. Dorothy, this is Captain Arthur Hastings, who I mentioned to you.”  
“Only good things I hope,” said Hastings.  
“Dear Ella is incapable of saying anything other than good things about anyone,” said Dorothy. “How do you do, Captain Hastings?”  
“Quite well, and yourself?”  
“Simply impatient for the start of the game, Captain.”

The trio looked across at the discussion which seemed to be winding down. Hastings noticed that Dorothy was watching him from the corner of his eye. He turned to smile winningly at her, wondering in the back of his mind how recently she was widowed. Dorothy smiled back at him as if with some secret amusement.  
“And how is your companion, Captain?” asked Dorothy casually. “Dear Ella tells me the two of you are near inseparable.”  
Ella flinched at that but Dorothy simply patted her hand in absent-minded reassurance.  
“Poirot?” asked Hastings. “Oh, I doubt he’ll be joining us just yet. Perhaps he’ll be up for dinner tonight.”  
“Well, Captain, the two of you must join us if he does. I can’t wait to meet him.”  
Hastings nodded and smiled, even as he was sure he was missing something.

At that moment, a young boy of about seven came sprinting over towards them. He abruptly slowed to a more dignified walk as Dorothy’s eye fell upon him.  
“Captain Hastings,” said Dorothy. “This is my son Robert Bessler. Robert, this is Captain Hastings.”  
“Hello, Captain Hastings,” said Robert obediently.  
“Hello,” returned Hastings in all seriousness.  
Robert turned to his mother with a hopeful air. Dorothy acquiesced with a wave.  
“Mother, I managed to fish a silver coin out of the bowl!” said Robert excitedly, holding out a coin for her inspection.  
Dorothy lent over to inspect the coin carefully, without taking it out from in between her son’s fingers. She treated it as seriously as one might when suddenly presented with a precious gem.  
“Very good,” said Dorothy. “You may keep it.”  
Robert beamed at the praise and tucked the precious coin into his pocket. He thanked his mother, nodded both to Ella and Hastings, and returned from whence he came.  
It was at this point that Major Chesterton and his companion came striding over.  
“Right then!” announced the Major, as loud as if he were still on a parade ground.  
Dorothy and Hastings both winced but Ella was apparently used to her father’s volume as she shrugged.  
“I think that everything is squared away and ready to start,” shouted the Major.  
“Squared away, Father?” asked Ella. “You sound like a proper sailor.”  
“You know me, my dear, a proud army man through and through,” said the Major. “Although I must admit, this boat business is not too bad.”  
"Actually, it's a ship," began Hastings but the nearly deaf Major had already turned away.  
Shrugging, Hastings waved for the ladies to precede him. Ella and Dorothy led the way to the quoits deck, still entangled arm in arm. 

* * *  
That evening found Hastings returning to his friend’s first class cabin.  
“Good evening, Poirot. Are you coming to dinner?” he shouted through the door.  
The door opened and his friend Poirot smiled at him. As always, Hastings could never resist smiling back.  
While Hastings was generally regarded as handsome, Hercule Poirot was distinctly memorable. He was well dressed with an immaculately kept moustache. Whereas Hastings might occasionally indulge in casual sporting clothes and shorts, Poirot was always to be found in his suits. They were pressed and preened and admitted no possibility of error. Poirot himself was a little shorter and rounder than Hastings, but his eyes shone with genuine delight at seeing Hastings.  
“My dear Hastings,” said Poirot. “You could not keep me away.”  
“Wonderful,” said Hastings. “You missed a good lunch. How have you been?”  
“I am much improved,” said Poirot. “Although I am famished so let us head to dinner.”  
“Indeed,” said Hastings.  
They strolled along the deck, Hastings recounting the earlier game of quoits and Poirot listening attentively.  
“There is something that bothers you, my friend?” asked Poirot as they neared the dining room.  
“Not at all,” said Hastings. “Well… there’s a Mrs Bessler among the passengers, wearing mourning dress.”  
“These days, it is not common,” said Poirot. “But it is not unheard of, especially for a lady of wealth.”  
“Well no,” said Hastings. “… but she didn’t seem like she was actually mourning?”  
“Grief, it takes many forms. Do you expect her to beat her chest and shriek fantastically, mon ami?”  
“Certainly not. It just, something seemed odd about it.”  
“Well, we shall have a further five weeks to solve the mystery,” said Poirot, touching a friendly hand to Hastings’ shoulder.

They passed together through the entrance to the dining room and a served glided over to escort them to a table. They had clearly been expected as Ella Chesterton smiled widely as she saw the two of them approaching. The Major stood up to receive them.  
“Good evening, Major. Might I introduce you all to my dear friend, Hercule Poirot,” said Hastings, carefully introducing each diner. “Poirot, this is Major Chesteron, his daughter Ella, Mrs Dorothy Bessler and her son Robert.”  
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the Major, shaking Poirot’s hand with more vigour than Poirot seemed to appreciate. “We know all about your reputation, of course.”  
“You are too kind,” said Poirot humbly but a real pleasure crossed his face at the recognition.  
Poirot reclaimed his hand from the Major’s grip, nodded to the ladies, and took his seat at the table with great precision.

Hastings took his own seat, long accustomed to fading into the background when the famous detective was at his best. Most of those at the table looked delighted at this sudden change to their routine. However, the young Robert Bessler seemed to be studying Poirot with some interest and confusion.  
“Something troubles you, young sir?” asked Poirot.  
“Mr Hastings here said you weren’t a Frenchman,” said Robert. “But you sound like one.”  
Hastings hid his grin behind his hand as Poirot’s face creased into a grimace. Dorothy Bessler looked scandalised and Hastings had a feeling that Robert would be receiving a lecture on appropriate dinner conversation in the near future.  
“I am Belgian,” said Poirot, regaining his smile. “I come from the country of Belgium and we speak the French there.”  
“Okay,” said Robert, alert enough to realise he had somehow misspoken. “I’m sorry, sir.”  
“Apology accepted,” said Poirot genuinely.  
“So, are you going to become Australian now, sir?” asked Robert.  
“Non,” said Poirot, chuckling indulgently. “Hastings and I journey to Australia but we are not to stay.”  
“My sister’s in Australia with her husband,” explained Hastings. “She’s in a spot of trouble and Poirot and I are on our way to help out.”

“Australia’s such a long way to travel, isn’t it?” asked Ella. “If you don’t take family with you, you probably won’t see them again.”  
She reached out to pat her father on the hand.  
“Quite right, quite right,” said the Major, returning the gesture. “You have to take your most precious possessions with you.”  
“You’re a good brother,” announced Dorothy decidedly. “And Monsieur Poirot is a good friend to follow you all this way.”  
“I am very…,” Hastings paused to clear his throat. “Honoured to call him my friend.”  
Hastings looked down at the table, overcome with emotion for a moment. He chanced a brief glance at Poirot but quickly returned his attention to the menu he'd already memorised.

“Yes, absolutely, a good friend,” echoed Ella enthusiastically.  
Hastings thought there was something a trifle odd about her emphasis on the word friend but wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He shot a puzzled look at Poirot who was smiling and nodding along jovially.  
“In a friendship as long as ours, who can even keep count of all the favours to and fro? A friend one can rely on in life is worth one’s fortune, n’est-ce pas?” asked Poirot, refilling his wine glass. “So I propose a toast, to good friends.”  
“To good friends,” chorused the table.  
Poirot caught Hastings eye as he toasted. Hastings couldn’t stop the genuine grin from taking over his face as he returned the gesture. After they had upended their glasses, Poirot turned to ask the Major a question about his travels on the continent.  
Hastings relaxed back in his seat, feeling the wine warm him as it travelled down to his stomach. Beside him, Ella slipped her arm through Dorothy’s and leaned her head on her shoulder. Dorothy smiled and bent her head to rest gently against the crown of Ella’s. It was a gesture more of a schoolgirl than a wealthy heiress, but Dorothy did not seem to object.

* * *  
Later in the evening, Hastings and Poirot were strolling back towards their cabins. Poirot was savaging the English cuisine they’d been offered for dinner, slipping thoughtlessly in and out of French as his ranting gained steam.  
“Hastings, mon ami, are you listening to me?” demanded Poirot, turning a suspicious eye on Hastings.  
“I… well… I’m sorry, Poirot, you’re right - I wasn’t,” confessed Hastings artlessly, shrugging.  
Poirot seemed mollified by this although he also studied Hastings thoughtfully. Hastings tried shrugging again and looked out at the dark night sky.  
“For once, something occupies your little grey cells, non?” asked Poirot.  
“Well… I think … I think Mrs Bessler might have taken a shine to me,” confessed Hastings. “She’s been saying some fairly queer things.”  
A crinkled smile of amusement formed beneath Poirot’s grand moustache.  
“Oh, my poor Hastings,” said Poirot, patting Hasting’s arm in sympathy. “My dear friend.”  
“Oh alright, Poirot,” said Hastings, irritated at the condescending sympathy. “If you don’t think so, you don’t need to be cruel about it.”

Poirot sighed.  
“My dear Hastings,” said Poirot. “Mrs Dorothy Bessler is indeed occupied with thoughts of romance but for you? Non. You are not the object of her affections.”  
“Are you sure?” asked Hastings. “She is always talking to me and striking up a conversation. There was also something jolly strange about Ella’s friends comment earlier.”  
“As always my friend, you see things that few other men do,” said Poirot laughing. “And yet you are so far from the heart of the matter.”  
Hastings broke off from their trajectory to lean against the railing, staring out at the darkened sea.  
“There’s no need to be cruel about it,” repeated Hastings. “So, just what is the truth, then? She’s just using me to get to the great Hercule Poirot?”  
Hastings regretted his words immediately. Poirot was a great detective and his reputation was well deserved. As much as Hastings enjoyed his company, he knew that deep down he was not Poirot’s equal. He did not look up as Poirot joined him against the railing.  
“I shall make a deal with you, Hastings, if you promise to repeat the information to no one, then I will tell you the true object of her affections,” offered Poirot as a peace offering.  
Hastings turned to study Poirot’s face, finding nothing but fondness and sincerity there.  
“I promise,” nodded Hastings.  
“Bien,” said Poirot. “The object of Mrs Bessler’s affections is, naturally, Miss Chesterton.”  
Hastings blinked and kept looking at Poirot, thinking he must have misheard.  
“Miss Chesterton? But… my word! But…”  
“I suspect this is the reason that the Chestertons and Besslers are migrating to a new continent. All the better to remain incognito where their close affection will be easier to hide. Suddenly, they are not two grown women who have begun quite suddenly to cling to one another. They are instead fellow travellers in a strange land. What could be more natural than they keep to themselves?”  
“Won’t the Major find out?” asked Hastings. “I can’t imagine he’d be too fond of the idea.”  
“My dear Hastings,” said Poirot. “I have no doubt it was the Major who suggested this journey. All young lovers feel untouchable and as if nothing can ever harm them. It would have been the Major who worried about the risks his precious daughter is courting. It is the Major who would have issued the ultimatum – you must either give up your lover or your country. You cannot have both.”  
“But I still don’t understand why Mrs Bessler’s been talking to me, then. Am I a sort of smokescreen for them? A diversion to deflect suspicion?”  
Poirot straightened his bowtie and stepped away from the railing. It was not a very Poirot gesture to break eye contact almost bashfully, as if he had said too much. He was normally more likely to be irritated because Hastings had not grasped the few breadcrumbs he’d delivered.  
“Poirot,” said Hastings in exasperation. “I can jolly well keep a secret, you know.”  
Poirot pursed his lips as if he was considering the merits of debating this.

“Mrs Bessler talks to you because she believes you are already in the know,” said Poirot. “She believes you to have sympathy for her situation. She believes that you are also intimate with one of your own sex.”  
“Whatever would have given her that idea?” asked Hastings. “Was it something I said? Something I wore? Have I accidentally given her some sort of secret sign?”  
Poirot bent his head from side to side as if testing the actual weight of that idea.  
“My word, I have, haven’t I?” said Hastings. “What did I do? I swear I didn’t mean to, Poirot.”  
“I know you did not do so deliberately, Hastings,” said Poirot. “A simple misunderstanding. I’m not sure of the exact circumstances. Perhaps you simply mentioned me warmly in passing to Miss Chesterton. Perhaps she has unfounded suspicions about foreigners such as myself. Either way, she has become convinced that you and I share a relationship of an intimate nature. She has then shared this theory with Mrs Bessler.”  
“You and me… well, that’s just… I never… I like women as much as the next… oh, golly… just the thought of another man’s…,”  
Hastings couldn’t stop talking even though he wasn’t sure he was particularly coherent. The words simply flowed like a torrent. Poirot nodded along in a manner that Hastings had long come to recognise as ‘humouring good old Hastings’.  
“Enough, Hastings, you need sleep,” interrupted Poirot tersely. “And I am very weary.”  
“Maybe you’re right,” admitted Hastings.  
Poirot abruptly turned on his heel and set off down the deck. Hastings watched him go, wondering why Poirot was now the one acting strange.

* * *  
When Hastings knocked on Poirot’s door the next day, he was somehow unsurprised that Poirot declined to leave his cabin. At breakfast, Dorothy Bessler asked solicitously how Hastings’ friend was doing and Hastings snapped that Poirot was _perfectly fine, thank you _. Major Chesterton looked about ready to deck Hastings then and there for his rudeness. Dorothy Bessler simply raised an eyebrow at his rude tone and admonished her son to close his gaping mouth. Hastings apologised bashfully and fled as soon as he was able.__

____

____

Quite without input from his brain, Hastings feet walked him to Poirot’s cabin door. He leaned against the door jamb without knocking, feeling the smoothness of the wood and the gentle rolling of the ship beneath his feet. He ran the previous night’s conversation through his mind, trying to pinpoint the moment Poirot had grown exasperated. He was totally unprepared for Poirot’s door to be flung inwards. Deprived of the surface he’d been leaning against, Hastings promptly fell forwards into the cabin at a surprised Poirot’s feet. Hastings scrambled back to his feet, scraping elbows and knees on the floor in his haste. Poirot watched him with a familiar mix of disappointment and weary amusement.  
“Hastings, why are you sleeping standing up at my door?” asked Poirot. “Is not your cabin for this purpose?”  
“I wasn’t sleeping,” protested Hastings.  
“Then, Hastings, why are you leaning on my door?” asked Poirot. “Is something wrong with your door? I believe this ship does in fact have many, many doors. It also has many beds, one of which is your own.”  
“I was just resting for a moment,” said Hastings. “It was just bad luck you happened to open the door just now.”  
“Hastings, you were there for several minutes,” said Poirot. “I saw your shadow beneath the door and I smelled your cologne. I opened the door to find out what it was you wanted.”

“I want… to apologise, I guess,” said Hastings.  
“What for, mon ami?”  
“I’m not sure. I have the strangest feeling I said something to upset you, last night,” said Hastings. “I don’t know what it was but I am sorry.”  
Poirot sighed and gestured Hastings to move further into the cabin so he could close the door.  
“It was nothing, my friend,” said Poirot. “Just the slight bruising of my pride, that is all.”

“Your pride but how? I don’t understand,” said Hastings.  
“It is quite alright, Hastings,” said Poirot. “It is of little import.”  
“If you don’t tell me, I'll just do it again,” pointed out Hastings.  
Poirot sighed, “It’s just a slight to my pride, quite by accident.”  
“What did I do?”  
“I understand you were surprised at the idea of intimacy between us. However, it was unpleasant to hear you detail at length exactly how distasteful the person of Poirot is to you, mon ami,” said Poirot.  
“Oh, I see,” said Hastings. “I really didn’t mean to say that there was anything wrong with you, Poirot. I was simply surprised.”  
“Understandable, my dear Hastings,” Poirot reassured him.  
“And now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, I guess it makes sense from a stranger’s perspective – I mean we are two bachelors sailing across the world together. I did also mention you a lot before you got a chance to introduce yourself. Neither of us has a wife or a girlfriend in our lives.”  
“It is natural for people to wish that others are similar to themselves,” said Poirot. “No harm has been done.”

Hastings thought for a moment.  
“How did you know so quickly about Bessler and Chesteron then? Have you seen similar ‘friends’ before then?”  
“I have, Hastings. It’s not so unusual as you might think.”  
“I say,” said Hastings, sitting down absent-mindedly.  
Hastings tried to think about men who might be intimate with other men. Surely he would have known? Men shared hotel rooms all the time – Hastings had remembered complaining bitterly to Poirot about being forced to share with Japp. Japp had talked in his sleep and clearly had nightmares about blancmange that Hastings had been too embarrassed to enquire about. Maybe it took a brilliant man like Poirot to spot the signs? Suddenly Hastings was seized by a horrible thought – surely Poirot knew that Hastings and Japp were just friends? 

Hastings looked up to ask Poirot and belatedly realised that he’d been sitting on Poirot’s bed, lost in thought, for several minutes. Long enough for Poirot to sit in a chair and busy himself with a journal.  
“Poirot?” asked Hastings.  
“Your little grey cells have finished their work, Hastings?” asked Poirot, without looking up from his reading. “It seemed to take some time.”  
“Well, I… won’t keep you any longer, Poirot,” said Hastings hurriedly.  
Hastings shot to his feet, nodding his goodbyes and stumbling over his words as Poirot raised a slightly bemused eyebrow.

Hastings was out on deck before the panic had receded. Where the panic came from, Hastings could not have said. He strolled along the deck towards the quoits but spotted a still furious Major Chesterton stalking up and down restlessly. Hastings did a quick about-face to avoid him and returned rather listlessly to his cabin. Maybe a nap would do him good? Just a short one before lunch.

* * *  
In the end, Hastings slept through lunch but was woken in the afternoon by the chatter of what sounded like the ship’s entire complement of passengers. Hastings dressed hastily and stuck his head outside the door. Many of the passengers were in fact out on the deck and it was easy to see why. The Themistocles had reached the Canary Islands and was slowing down near the Port of Santa Cruz de Teneriffe.

The island as far as Hastings could see was covered by jagged mountains peaks. It seemed like the only flat ground in sight was that occupied by the port buildings themselves. While the sea looked blue and inviting, there wasn’t even a strip of beach before the wild terrain dived abruptly into the sea. 

The Themistocles lost the last of its speed and its heavy anchors cranked to life. Some of the passengers craned their necks to see the splash of the anchors hitting the sea but most were chatting excitedly about Teneriffe. Several tenders were to go ashore with passengers, with the only restriction that they return by 5 pm. The ship would not even stay the night.

The Chestertons and the Besslers enthusiastically boarded the first tender to depart, and a relieved Hastings came the rest of the way out of his cabin.  
“Ah, there you are, mon ami,” said Poirot.  
Hastings turned to see Poirot shuffling his way through the crowd.  
“A little crowded out here,” said Hastings, closing his door behind him.  
Poirot grimaced as he was caught in the crush between a prim steward and an elderly woman. Hastings reached out and tugged Poirot’s elbow until he popped free like a cork from a bottle. Guided by Hastings’ grip, Poirot’s shorter head bumped against Hasting’s chest and his greater weight would have knocked them both down if Hastings’ back had not landed against his closed cabin door. Hastings seized Poirot by the shoulder to steady him and found the power of speech deserting him yet again.

“I’m so sorry, Poirot… I didn’t mean to … that is to say… I wasn’t thinking… just a friendly gesture…”  
“My dear Hastings,” sighed Poirot, regaining his balance and straightening his clothes. “Perhaps this is too much excitement for you. Shall we retire to your cabin?”  
“Oh,” said Hastings, unaccountably relieved of the need to find an end to his sentence. “Rather.”  
Hastings turned around and opened the cabin door he had sealed behind him moments before. Poirot followed and took a moment to refold the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Once he had returned to his preferred level of decorum, Poirot claimed the only chair in the cabin. Hastings moved to sit on the bed before he remembered their earlier conversation and jumped up again. Hastings settled for pacing in the cabin while swinging his arms like a cricketer about to take the field.  
“Hastings, what is the trouble now?” asked Poirot exasperatedly.  
“I, ah, well… I just wanted you to know that Japp and I – we’re just friends.”  
Poirot’s brows furrowed in a perplexed frown.  
“Inspector Japp?”  
“Yes, we’re friends. I thought you should know.”  
Poirot was now giving Hastings a look which questioned his sanity.

“My friend, you move too fast for me to keep up,” said Poirot. “Of what relevance is the Inspector?”  
“Well, none really,” said Hastings. “I just thought you should know. We might have shared a hotel room that time but we weren’t, you know, _sharing_ a room.”  
“I confess I had made some predictions about how this conversation would go,” said Poirot. “This was not one of them.”  
Hastings felt that he had delivered his grand pronouncement but was a little lost that it hadn’t hit its mark.  
“Hastings, I tell you that I have known men who have had the intimate relations with one another, and your first thought is not to say you yourself are a man purely for the ladies, or to question my own intimates, but to clarify that if you were to indulge in such things, that the good Inspector Japp would not be your paramour of choice?”  
“Apparently,” said Hastings. “I’m not sure why, really. I just felt you should know.”  
“I see,” said Poirot, in a tone that said he did not.  
“I mean, how would one even go about it?” asked Hastings. “Two men?”

Even as he asked the question, Hastings suddenly had a vivid sense memory of looking downwards at a mop of brunette hair while a feminine pair of hands reached for his trousers. There was no reason that another man couldn’t provide the same – men had mouths after all. Hastings couldn’t have said whether it was the memory or the thought of broader shoulders crouched before him that made him squirm. He sat down abruptly on the bed and attempted to casually cross his legs to hide his crotch from view.

The speculative look on Poirot’s face suggested that Hastings’ deception was not as successful as he’d hoped.  
“If you were to indulge in such things, mon ami, who would be your paramour of choice?”  
“I don’t know that I’ve thought about it,” said Hastings quickly.  
“I think you should,” said Poirot, starting to relax and looking amused. “I think I have underestimated you once again, my dear Hastings. In fact, I think you have underestimated yourself. The one part of your brain is answering questions before they are even asked.”  
“I didn’t know brains could do that.”  
“Normally not but you have always been special, mon ami.”

Poirot walked to Hastings’ cabin door and latched it.  
“Err, what are you doing, Poirot?”  
“Preventing the unfortunate interruptions.”  
Poirot carefully removed his jacket and draped it over a chair. Hastings found himself swallowing in a dry mouth.  
“It seems to me, my dear Hastings, that you have a curiosity that needs to be… indulged, no?”

Hastings was sure that the squeak he responded with had started as something much more manly and impressive before it left his mouth. Poirot smiled warmly at him which was strangely comforting even as Poirot moved towards him with purpose. Hastings’ eyes were drawn to the moustache that was Poirot’s pride and joy. Would the moustache tickle if it brushed his skin or would the moustache be too prim and proper to ever break rank in such a fashion? Poirot's approach was not a surprise and yet Hastings still jumped when Poirot’s hand landed on his knee. The palm was warm and heavy through Hastings’ trouser leg.  
“We don’t have to, my dear Hastings,” said Poirot carefully. “But if you are willing, I am amenable to satisfying your curiosity.”  
Hastings found his own hand landing on top of Poirot’s before the other man could try to withdraw it.  
“Well, a man of the world should be open to new experiences,” Hastings found himself saying.  
Hastings took a deep breath and let his legs uncross. Poirot smiled fondly and let his thumb stroke slowly against the inside seam by Hastings’ knee.  
“I will do my best to provide,” promised Poirot, a wide and genuine smile taking over his face.  
As always, Hastings couldn’t help but smile back.

The End


End file.
